


The Boy in the Dormer

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-03
Updated: 2006-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other children told ghost stories in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy in the Dormer

The other children told ghost stories in the dark.

After the matron went to sleep, they huddled around one narrow bed, whispering and giggling under threadbare blankets. They spoke of murderers and vengeful lovers, dark figures on country roadsides and witches that stole children away in the night.

The boy on the bed in the dormer wasn't listening to their tales, but they were so noisy he couldn't help but overhear.

One of the older boys was telling the story of a woman whose husband had been unfaithful. "She was hideous," the boy said, "hunchbacked and twisted. Her husband had only married her out of pity."

"Why would he do that?" The small boys with a high and loud voice was quickly hushed, and there was silence as they listened for footsteps on the creaking stairs.

"Because he pitied her," the older boy replied, mimicking the tone the matron used when she said Because those are the rules. "But he soon few tired of her ugly face, and he was furious when their children were born just as horrible as she was."

The boy in the dormer faced the window with his knees drawn up. The moon was full and bright, washing the buildings outside with silver, and inside the window a moth was fluttering against the glass, its small body tap-tap-tapping in a relentless, unsteady beat.

"The man thought his wife was stupid," the older boy said, "but she learned that he was spending his nights with a beautiful woman in town--"

"I don't blame him!" another boy said, and they all burst into laughter.

"And," the storyteller went on, raising his voice over the snickers, "she decided to take her revenge. One night when he was away, she bathed the children."

"Because they stank!"

"Just like Tom!"

The boy in the dormer felt his face grow red, but he didn't turn around or acknowledge their jeers and laughter. He pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared at the stupid, hapless moth, wondering what it would feel like caught in his hand, its endless fluttering stilled.

"No," the older boy said, pausing dramatically. "Because she wanted to drown them."

There were shocked gasps and murmurs, but the boy in the dormer rolled his eyes. Only idiots couldn't have seen that part of the story coming.

"So she did. She drowned her ugly children in the bath and took their bodies outside, where she chopped them into little pieces just like pigs and buried their bones in the garden."

"Why did she do that?" one of the very young boys asked, horrified.

The boy in the dormer snorted loudly and looked over his shoulder. "Because she wanted to cook them in a stew and feed them to her husband."

"Nobody asked you, Tom," the older boy snapped.

"You didn't have to ruin the story," another boy added.

A third said, "We didn't invite you."

The boy in the dormer turned back toward the window. Behind him the others lost interest in their stories and padded quietly to their beds; he could hear them grumbling and feel them glaring at his back, but he didn't care.

He stared through the window, wondering what it would feel like to be out in the cold winter night, soaring through the air like a hawk or an aeroplane, nothing but rushing wind and silver light all around. It would be better than here, where none of the other children ever dared wonder what it would be like to see the world from above.

As the others drifted into sleep, the boy in the dormer watched the moon slide across the sky. The moth still bumped against the window, and when he grew tired of its fluttering he fixed it with his stare. The moth's motions grew more frantic, more erratic, knocking into the window with greater force, almost as though it was trying pathetically to break the glass. The boy wondered again what the moth feel like caught in his hand, its tiny, soft wings struggling to break free as he closed his fist around it.

There was a shimmer in the air, a flash of pale light, and the moth froze perfectly still.

It floated in mid-air for the briefest moment, then dropped, dead as a stone, and hit floor with a soft tap.

The boy in the dormer smiled.


End file.
